A Tale of Two Christmases
by outtabreath
Summary: A Christmas one-shot written for kalenel and the Writers Anonymous holiday fic exchange. Two Christmases in the life of Spock. Amanda/Sarek and Spock/Uhura.


For kalenel. Happy Holidays!

Thanks to my beta, miss steph, the lovely ladies of Writers Anonymous and the people that own Star Trek and its characters and allow us to play in their world.

_Sa-kan_ means "boy" as in "an immature person;" at least that's what the VLD tells me. And I'm going with the whole fandom "chocolate is a Vulcan aphrodisiac" conceit.

**~*~**_**A Tale of Two Christmases**_ **by outtabreath~*~**

_~First: Vulcan~_

"It should fit. I kept adding to it as you kept sprouting," his mother said, her tone clearly indicating that his current growth spurt was more challenging for her than it was for him.

Illogical.

_He_ had to contend with clothes that were too tight or too short, with the increased comments from the personality-deficient individuals at school, she did not. He stared at the object in his lap - merely the latest in a long line of sweaters created by his mother and gifted to him - and tried to ignore the music jangling its way through their dwelling.

_Let it snow. Let it snow. Let it snow._

It was a ridiculous song to be played on Vulcan.

"Try it on," she prompted, pushing her hands towards the sweater sitting in a bed of thin, gaily colored paper.

A waste of precious resources.

Nonsensical.

Spock glanced at his father; Sarek was staring off into the middle distance, stoically wearing his own sweater. It was red and green and aesthetically unpleasing while being entirely holiday-specific.

At least his mother had made Spock's out of dark blue yarn. It would _blend_ better than his father's.

When Spock looked back at his mother, she was smiling brightly. Happy. She loved this holiday, loved the traditions - the holo of the conifer tree covered in lights, the seemingly endless diet of nutritionally deficient sweets and fat-laden foods, the soaring and cloying music, the garish clothing decorated with obese, bearded men wearing red - and, because he held her in such high esteem, his father indulged her. Which meant that Spock had to as well.

Spock pulled the sweater over his head. It fit, bumpily and somewhat oddly, but it fit. It covered his wrists, was wide enough in the shoulders and skimmed his torso perfectly in a way none but the newest of his clothes did.

It _was_ rather impressive.

"Hah!" his mother crowed. "I have a good eye - despite your body's attempt to confound me. A mother knows." She grinned and smoothed the thing over his arms, brushing away imaginary wrinkles. "My handsome boy. My handsome _boys_." She beamed at his father who roused himself from his meticulous study of the view out of the right window (red desert punctuated by white rock) and regarded his wife.

"This item of clothing is most unique Amanda. No one else can ever say they have one like it."

She laughed - a musical sound that soared over the carol, "Away in the Manager," playing insistently in the background - and crossed to her husband. She insinuated herself into his lap and kissed him lightly, on the lips, and Spock looked away and fixed his gaze on the slowly revolving holo.

There were several uncomfortable moments of not-quite silence during which Spock listened intently to the music. One piece ended and another began. "Joy to the World." Not _his _world. Hers.

"Now, it's time for cookies," she announced; Spock could hear the slide of her robe as she slid away from his father. Safe, he glanced at them. His mother was flushed, his father as unreadable as ever. "I made sugar and gingerbread."

"Gingerbread," Spock and Sarek said in almost perfect unison. The snap and spiciness of gingerbread was vastly more appealing to their palates than the cloying sweetness of sugar cookies - especially the ones she _frosted._ At least his father, early in their marriage - early in the observance of this annual rite - had been able to dissuade her from icing the gingerbread men and women and trees.

"Of course gingerbread," she laughed, walking like dancing past her son and dropping a gentle hand on his head. "My boys like their gingerbread." The hand ruffled Spock's meticulously styled hair before trailing away.

"Father," he began, as soon as she was in the kitchen, singing slightly off-key along with the fourth verse - _He rules the world with truth and grace and makes the nations prove the glories of His righteousness _- and out of earshot. "Why must we continue to engage in this…?" The proper word failed him.

Sarek's gaze snapped to his son's. "_Sa-kan_," he said, his voice as even as ever, but Spock bristled momentarily regardless - he was not a _child,_ he was not a _boy_; he was thirteen and recognized the illogic of indulgence when he saw it.

"These rituals were a part of your mother's childhood," Sarek continued, unaware of his son's momentary stumble. "They are important to her. As it is important to me that she remain content with her life on Vulcan, we will continue to allow her to engage in them."

"But…." Spock looked at his sweater, then at his father's.

"She made them for us and we will wear them," Sarek said ponderously. "As we will each year at this time.

"What the clothing looks like is immaterial. They are well-made and serve their purpose."

"And they were made with _love_," Amanda interjected brightly, seemingly unconcerned that her son and husband had been discussing her. She moved back into the room holding a tray and glowing. Spock blinked against the sight. There were times his mother was painfully human.

"Cider for you," she said, thrusting a mug into Spock's hands. "To wash down the gingerbread." She handed him a plate with two cookies - a stylized man and woman - on top of it.

"And for _you_," she said, her voice dropping slightly as she approached his father. "My adorable _adun_, hot choco_late_." Her eyebrows and voice went up slightly on the last syllable of the word and Spock choked on his cookie.

He was aware that his parents shared a deep and abiding affection, one that often manifested itself in needlessly physical ways. There were just some things he did not need to be reminded of or bear witness to. Especially when being forced to participate in arcane Earth rituals while wearing a piece of knitwear.

His father's ears flushed a pale green, but he accepted the mug all the same.

"I love Christmas," his mother announced - unnecessarily, illogically, loudly. "And one day we'll celebrate it on Earth. With real snow and a real tree. And egg nog." Her eyes misted over slightly and she stared at the holo silently for long seconds before clearing her throat and sweeping her gaze over the other occupants of the room. "And you'll wear sweaters and look just _perfect_."

Spock took a bite of his cookie and dared to hope that it would never happen.

_~Second: Enterprise~_

"Uhm," Nyota said. "_Uhm_." She was still standing just inside his quarters as if rooted to the spot.

"It is December twenty-fifth on Earth," Spock said. He was standing at parade rest and he dug his nails into his palms slightly.

Her eyes moved from his sweater - this one blue and gray and a color his mother had identified as _oatmeal_ - to the miniature replica of a pine tree he'd carefully decorated with lights in the throes of some sudden, inexplicable compulsion.

"Christmas," he continued. "It is Christmas on Earth."

"Okay. Yes. If it's December twenty-fifth then that means it's Christmas. But…." She shook her head and cocked her head as if hearing, for the first time, the soaring notes issuing from the speakers imbedded in the ceiling. "What is _that_?"

_Gloria, gloria. In excelsis Deo!_

Spock listened for a moment; the song was drawing to a close in a series of heart-stopping movements. "That is 'Adeste Fideles.' A performance by the Vienna Boys' Choir."

"It's lovely," she said. "All of this is lovely, Spock, but I don't actually _celebrate_ Christmas."

"My mother enjoyed the holiday" he stated, his arms swinging forward so he could smooth his hands over the sweater - the lumpy and completely aesthetically unpleasing sweater - the immeasurably precious sweater.

"Oh," she said, understanding finally sparking in her eyes as she noted the movement. "_Oh_."

"Quite," he said. "I did not understand her affection for it - for the gifts and songs and the food, but…." He should not have done this. It was ill-advised. His shoulders sagged slightly and his spine lost some of its rigidity; Nyota was in front of him within seconds and he was in her arms. Safe and comforted.

_It's the most wonderful time of the year. With the kids jingle-belling and everyone telling you to be of good cheer._

He leaned into her, his hands cradling her shoulder blades, his face resting in the curve of her shoulder.

"It is illogical," he said as she led him to the sofa and wound herself around him.

"What is?" Her voice, familiar and soothing, reverberated against his ear.

"All of this."

Nyota leaned back slightly and caught his gaze with hers. "You miss your mom. That isn't illogical. That's normal."

He raised a single eyebrow. He knew she would understand the gesture.

"It _is_," she persisted. "And what's more, it's _okay_. Now," she said briskly. "Let's talk particulars and facts: what would you and your family do to celebrate Christmas?"

He stared at her, trying to rein in his unruly reactions. He should have expected this response from her; she did not exhibit the need for long discussions about _emotions_ or _motivations _- she preferred to focus on data and facts. For a human, Nyota was innately practical. It was one of the things that attracted him to her.

"Music," he began. "A holo of a tree. Hot chocolate."

Her eyebrows went up questioningly.

"For my father. She made me hot cider."

"Apple?" she asked, her voice full of wonder.

"_Kaasa_," he corrected.

"I wondered how your mother would've gotten apples on Vulcan," she said, smiling gently. "Though from what you've told me, if anyone could've, it would've been her."

Spock ached suddenly and he could not tamp it down. He wished, illogically and immoderately, that his mother and Nyota could have met. They would have liked one another immensely.

"I did not understand it," he said softly, his gaze transferring from her glowing eyes to the glowing tree. "Her desire to engage in the rituals of a religion she did not practice."

"But Christmas is not just about the religious practices - it's about _family_," Nyota interjected.

He nodded. "I understand that now. It was something that she celebrated in her childhood. That her family - my family - celebrated for generations. It was…nice."

Nyota laughed gently and squeezed him tighter. He was not sure why she did so, but he was unwilling to question her. The ache eased when she was close, when her skin was touching his. Another illogical fact, but a fact all the same.

"You really are a master of understatement," she said, releasing him; he resisted the urge to pull her back. He knew she would return to his side when she was ready.

She moved, fluidly, like dancing, to the tree and leaned over to look at it, then over her shoulder at him. "It's cute."

"Cute," he echoed. The disdain was implicit.

"Adorable. Just like the sweater. Your mom made it, didn't she?"

He started slightly. He had not told her the provenance of the sweater; however, she appeared to have deduced it.

"She made us - Father and I - one every year."

She straightened and turned towards him. "She did a good job, it brings out your…." Her gaze flickered over him. "Hair. The highlights in your hair."

He shifted and fought the urge to lift an eyebrow in the face of such an obvious prevarication. He was certain that she knew his thoughts regardless. She was most intuitive.

"What else?" she asked, touching a light with a careful nail. "Besides the sweaters and music and hot drinks?"

"She made cookies - my father and I preferred gingerbread; she preferred sugar - and she would read _A Christmas Carol_."

"Ah, Charles Dickens," Nyota said gravely. "Excellent choice. 'Marley was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt about that.'"

"You know it." He should not have been caught unawares. Nyota excelled at many things, including constantly surprising him.

"I _am_ from Earth," she said in a tone that would have been withering if it was not tinged with such affection. "Computer, _A Christ-._"

"No."

"Sorry," she mumbled before snapping her mouth closed.

_Ave Maria. Gratia plena._

Spock realized that she believed he was disconcerted by her request; it was imperative that he correct that assumption immediately.

"It is…fine…I just…I have my own copy," he said. "A book. I prefer reading it in that form." Just like his mother. She would take the book from the shelf and open it in her lap. He could remember the way the pages sounded as she turned them, the different voices she created for the characters - Tiny Tim, high; Scrooge, low and gravelly; the Ghost of Christmas Present, loud and boisterous; The Ghost of Christmas Past, soft and gentle - and the way they seemed to come alive, even far removed from the planet of their creation.

That copy had been destroyed, of course. He had purchased one upon returning to Earth, to Starfleet and San Francisco. It had been expensive but he had not hesitated.

"Do you wish me to retrieve it?" he queried.

She looked at him silently for a long moment, no doubt discerning the best response.

Whatever she saw in his face decided her as she nodded and made a shooing motion with her hands. "Go get it. We can read it - out loud or together silently, I don't care. It's a tradition and traditions are important."

The ache continued to ease and Spock paced to his bedroom to retrieve the book.

When he returned, Nyota was placing two mugs on the low table in front of the couch, a grin - mischievous and alluring - spread across her face.

"What is that?"

"Hot chocolate," she said, "I figure you're a big enough boy now." She sank down, sprawling decadently over the majority of the couch; she grabbed a mug and took a sip, her eyes meeting his over the rim.

He allowed his eyebrow to lift and felt the slightest tingle of heat at the points of his ears. "Indeed," he said. His voice was slightly hoarse.

He could smell the chocolate - thick and sweet, intoxicating - and pushed the book towards her. "I would like you to read."

She put her cup back on the table and took the book, looking at it reverently for a moment before bringing her head up and smiling at him, brightly and fully, unapologetically happy. Human. His.

He sat beside her, and she pressed even closer, turning the book over in her hands, running her fingers across the binding, the leather, the raised letters on the cover.

"Where is the best place to celebrate on Earth?" he asked, the words flying out of his mouth.

Her head came up. "What?"

"My mother always wished we could celebrate on Earth. Where would be the best place for us to do so?"

"Us?" she echoed softly.

Of course he wished to do so with her. Everything he envisioned in his future involved her in some capacity. That she was unaware of that was incomprehensible to him.

"Nyota," he said, laying his hand over hers, over the book. "Why does that surprise you? I did not enter into this relationship lightly. I have every intention of maintaining it as long as you desire."

She blew out a breath and said, "That long, huh?"

While he was still attempting to parse her response, she kissed him and he responded, as he always did, the smell of her mixing with the smell of the chocolate, fogging his head and heightening his senses.

When she released his mouth, she smiled up at him, contentment glowing in her eyes.

He was not certain he understood her fully, but all indications were that they were in alignment as to their goals for this relationship.

"Indeed," he observed, then attempted to gather more data. "I believe it will be a very long time."

She appeared pleased with his response which served to bolster his conclusion and ease the ache even more. He could breathe fully, easily.

Perhaps this plan had not been ill-advised after all.

He looked at the book pointedly. "Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy" cascaded through the air around them. She put her head on his shoulder and opened it gingerly, carefully.

"A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens."

"We know the title and the author," he pointed out.

"This is how we read books when we were children," she said, nudging him gently. "Be quiet and listen. And drink your hot chocolate.

"Now, A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. Stave one. Marley's Ghost…."


End file.
